


Party Tricks

by SuedeScripture



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Party Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2007. Early NZ-Era shenanigans.

_Life of Brian_ is two-thirds over and not being watched. The videocassette is old, but it was the only one the closest shop had, and Dominic was insistent about tonight’s movie choice. The time is 11:15pm, and tomorrow is another day of beating the hell out of each other in fighting practice. Billy has bruises thanks to Dominic’s sorry coordination, an ache in his gut from his comedic antics to make up for it, a honey-flavoured local brew procured by Elijah in his hand that can only be described as interesting, and he’s commandeered Orlando’s cushy secondhand armchair for himself. The rest are on the floor, sharing a bowl of crisps and an affinity for strange talents.

“I can walk on my hands,” Dom says and demonstrates, upsetting the bowl of crisps, and nearly lobbing his big bare foot in Billy’s face.

“I can put both feet behind my head,” Elijah says and doesn’t.

“At the same time?” Dom asks, righting himself and tugging his T-shirt back down.

Elijah grins smugly, takes another swallow of beer, and maneuvers a leg behind his head with little effort. The other leg requires a little more maneuvering.

“Can you…?” Dom asks with a smile that hovers between devious and curious.

“Bite my ass, fuckface,” Elijah snarls, untangling himself and throwing a handful of crisps in his direction.

Billy’s already laughing when Dom’s grin goes full-on wicked, “Therein lies my answer. Quite the talent, Lij. Well done.”

Elijah turns a pretty shade of magenta, muttering, “Leave it to you, you sick fuck. And for your information, I haven’t tried.”

“Yet,” Dom finishes for him, and pats the lad’s knee in mock sympathy, “You’re young. If you can’t pull, you can at least amuse yourself.”

“Orli, you?” Billy asks pointedly. Yanks can only take so much provocation before they take it personally, he’s discovered.

“I used to be able to do both of those. I can’t anymore with my back.”

“Both of those?” Dom, however, is still in full-on piss-taking mode. Billy wonders what it takes to get him out of it.

Orli thwacks him on the back of the head, “The hand-stand thing and the feet thing. Getting a suck isn’t a problem for me, mate, although I can see why you’d be envious of Elijah’s solo talents.”

There is a pause, and Dom grabs a deck of cards from the end table and arches his brows expectantly at Orlando.

“All right, fine,” Orlando comes up on his knees, pulls his T-shirt up to his nipples and hitching his jeans down with his thumbs, showing his sun tattoo. Then abruptly the sun begins to dance, the muscles of his stomach undulating like a harem girl’s.

Dom cackles and Elijah manages to snort beer up his nose, making his eyes water.

“That is sort of disturbing, isn’t it?” Billy asks in all seriousness. “Like a car crash. You should look away, but you can’t.” His eyes are still fixed on Orlando’s belly, and Orlando plays to the audience until Dom manages to spill both his own and Orlando’s beer on the carpet.

“Bill?” Dom pointedly asks once he’s recovered.

Bill leans back in his armchair and primly crosses his ankles. “I don’t have one.”

“Fuck off, everyone has a party trick.”

Billy smiles and chews his bottom lip, fixing his eyes on each of them in turn. “I can make you all want me by the end of the night.”

Approximately three seconds of complete silence passes. A disbelieving snort of amusement issues from Orli, while the other two throw identical what the fuck looks in his direction.

“Exactly how are you planning on doing that, mate?” Orlando asks.

“I don’t have to do much of anything, _mate_ ,” Billy replies, looking thoroughly confident. He licks his lips, tips his beer to the lot of them with an elegant sweep and brings it to his mouth as though the deed is done.

•

I didn’t know Billy was bent. Fuck’s sake, I spent eighteen hours with him on a plane, how could I not figure it out? He doesn’t act it.

Git. Bill’s an actor. A stage actor at that. He can act any way he fucking well pleases. Like now, sitting up there on my armchair like the fucking King of Brunei himself. Is he reading his beer label? Who does that? 

He’s not reading his label. He’s looking past his label at Elijah. Does he want Elijah? Fuck, what gay guy wouldn’t want Elijah? Pretty and little and filthy and… bendy. I used to be bendy. I bet I still could, if I’d kept up with the physical therapy.

And who’s the Elf here anyway? I’m pretty, yeah? Handsome. I’m the bloke who shoots arrows like bloody Cupid. I never miss either. Well. Working on that, but I won’t miss. What gay guy wouldn’t want me? Why wouldn’t Billy want me? I was in _Wilde_ , for fuck’s sake. I was a rent boy in a fucking ace suit, matter of fact. It doesn’t get much more poncy than that, does it?

•

Oh, he’s good. He wants me, of course. A man who throws you on your back for accidentally tapping his shin with a wooden sword has some clear dominance issues. _Dom_ -inance issues, hah. All that Jeet Kun do mumbo jumbo kali karate. You know sparring is like dancing, Billy, and dancing is just mimicry of sex. Want to dance, Bill?

Look at him, eyeing Elijah up like a piece of meat. The kid’ll soil his pants if he lets his brain run too far. And Orlando, I see that look. You’re all bravado and no balls though. Billy likes a happy medium, I can tell.

Which way d’you want to swing, Bills? Because I can swing any way you want.

•

Well fuck. I should have seen that coming. It’s not the first time a gay guy’s hit on me after that party trick. Stupid. It’s just, I wouldn’t have thought Billy. Orli, yeah, Dom maybe. But…

Wait a sec, technically Billy said all of us. That’s… whoa. Kay, back up. Like together?

Would they know I haven’t done anything with guys before? Is there a right of passage? I’m all for experiments but, like, one-on one would be better. Less fraternity initiation-like.

Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I’m thinking this. Is he? Shit. He is looking at me. Billy, who’s like, all relaxed and funny one minute, and fierce and calculating the next, like in that one movie of his, _Urban Ghosts, Ghosts of Suburbia_ … what the fuck ever. That one, with Billy, and the… with the… Jesus.

I wonder if he’d want me all… submissive. I wonder what that would be like. I’ve never been submissive with girls. That’d be… interesting.

•

Billy glances at his watch. 11:32pm.

“I’m off, lads,” he says, standing and stretching. Three sets of eyes watch. _Christ, this is just too much fun_ , Billy thinks, and cracks his neck just for added effect.

Shrugging into his jacket, Billy nods at the VCR, “Elijah, you’re meant to rewind that at the end. Older technology than you, I know. Piece of shite.”

“Fuck you, Bill,” Elijah blurts.

Bill’s eyes flash and his mouth parts and curls, just a little, watching Elijah’s eyes goes very wide indeed and his mouth work as if he wants a word, but can’t find it. Blushing, the boy’s face drops and he fiddles with the empty bottle in his hands, eyes flitting up beneath his lashes to fasten somewhere in the vicinity of Billy’s knees.

_Och. Might have overdone it, there._

Billy teeters into his shoes, wincing as he knocks his sore legs on the end table. “They’ll need to fucking amputate from the knees down by the end of this fucking thing,” he complains, loudly.

Dom grins sidelong from where he leans against a shelf, shuffling the deck of cards against one thigh. “All right there, old man? This gig not too wearing on you?”

Billy lifts his trouser leg, showing the bruises he’s sporting from Dom’s earlier antics in sword practice. “Your fault, wanker.”

Dom arches an inquisitive brow at him, and his mouth opens as though there’s a word poised there. Perhaps an invitation. Billy lets Dom see when he drops his eyes to those parted lips.

Raising his bottle to his own mouth, Billy finds Orlando, who crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his chin, dark eyes throwing a look that smolders. Billy feels a giggle bubbling up in his throat and quells it with a last gulp of beer. He gives the lad a curt nod. “Orli.”

The dark eyebrows knit in confusion, and Billy has to turn to the door before any of them see the smile threatening behind his lips. “Nighty-night, then,” he tosses over his shoulder and sees himself out.

He unlocks his house, hangs his coat on the closet doorknob, toes out of his shoes and socks, turns the porch light on and makes his way to the kitchen to pull down his beloved bottle of Glenfiddich. It goes down smooth, smoky and warm, tingling in his belly like anticipation.

It’s only a matter of time now. Glancing at his watch, he raises the glass to his lips. 11:54pm. Call tomorrow is a luxurious nine hours away. Billy doesn’t need nine hours of sleep. He can get by on five. That leaves four entire hours for other possible activities, providing someone has the balls, the lecherous nature, and the timing to take him on.

There’s a knock at precisely 11:59, and Billy allows himself a grin as he pads slowly back to the door and pulls it open.

“You said by the end of the night.”

“I did. You’re right on time.”


End file.
